1969: Shooting the Moon

I wanted to tell them the truth, but how could I… what would I say…

It was tempting to move from this door—to leave and never remember this nightmare I walked into. A time ago, it was a dream come true for the opportunity, and now opportunity tainted the dream. 

My heart beat against my chest, echoing my fears back at me. I sat down on one of the misshaped boulders near the entrance putting my head in my hands. My stomach felt queasy. I fought against it as my stomach clenched when I heard the hum of murmurs and laughter behind those doors. They were my admirers, peers, mentors, cruelest of all, idols.

I heard the clanking of glasses as every person celebrated this joyous event, some congratulating themselves on their accomplishment, some celebrating our nation in their achievement, and even worse, I could hear echoes of my name with an overbearing wonderment.

My insides twisted into a knot, and my heart raced as my clammy palms clenched in a cold sweat; my anxiety was moving to a full-blown panic attack. I leaned forward, putting my head between my legs to catch my breath. They were uneven and jagged.

My mind raced with all of the injustices of this momentous opportunity.

I wanted to scream to match the chaos inside my mind but managed to keep it to myself. My thoughts were shrieking at me—would I go along with the story I was assigned to tell and dig myself deeper?

“Ladies and gentlemen, I am sorry to announce that everything America has witnessed in these last few extraordinary weeks hasn’t been completely true.”

Where did my loyalty lie? Did I owe it to my employer to keep the truth hidden to achieve worldwide supremacy because that was my patriotic duty? Or did I owe the truth because that was a higher moral responsibility to my country? I groaned, picking my head up to sling it back down.

“What preposterous and crooked situation I have got myself into.” I sighed.

My mother was behind those doors and as proud as ever. I rolled my eyes— it figures— of all the things I have accomplished in my life that this would be the one thing she chose as considerable enough to meet her expectations.

She knew the truth, but that didn’t matter to her. It only mattered what people thought they knew about my accomplishments—her son’s accomplishments. My accomplishments, no matter their crookedness, also belonged to her.

I lifted my head with my eyes closed and breathed in the cool summer breeze. I focused on quieting the congratulating murmurs. This calmed my mind. I focused on the feeling of the breeze swaddling me from the summer heat and allowing it to take over all of my senses.

My mind became blank. Permitting myself to relax into it, I breathed for a few moments.

I left the blank space and opened my eyes. I saw the General walking towards me on his way to the entrance. He was my evening babysitter to ensure I got the job done.

My body seized with anxiety again, and I rushed to stand up— giving the General the salutations custom requires. I looked towards the door and felt my stomach knot once again. I felt a pat on my shoulder, which was firm with expectation.

“Son?” the General asked with a husky sternness. 

I looked at him, unable to talk, not trusting my voice or that I wouldn’t get sick. The General smiled in return, but it wasn’t a pleasing one.

“Son, America is waiting on you. Don’t get put off by the details,” he clenched my shoulder as a reminder that I had no choice.

I nodded in acknowledgment. The General let go and walked past me towards the door, then paused and turned his head just enough to see the sharp lines of his profile.

“Soldier on, son,” he said as he nodded towards the door. He was right. This was my patriotic duty. What would I have said anyways, “I’m sorry, America? I didn’t really walk on the moon?” 

I finally moved my heavy feet and walked through the doors of opportunity, indeed, shooting the moon.

Thank you for taking the time to read this. If you enjoyed this, you might also appreciate exploring other fictional short stories.